


Forget-Me-Not

by Oddoneout



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/F, Femslash, I Tried, my bbys - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-01-10
Packaged: 2018-09-16 01:38:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9268028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oddoneout/pseuds/Oddoneout
Summary: Margaret Smith, elderly mother of two, turns eighteen again. She hasn't felt so small and lost in a long time. But when she meets senior art student Rose and her best friend, Hipster - who is definitely not her suitor - the world fills with possibilities once again.





	1. I.

**Author's Note:**

> So, I mostly write in Hungarian, but I translated this work. I'm not really sure in my English so feel free to point out any mistakes and I apologize in advance.

Margaret was eighteen again that night in her dreams, on the edge of something new and wonderful; it seemed like she was immortal. Stars shined over her as she was walking on cobble stones; she stumbled on the broken heel of her left shoe, laughing and out of breath.

She noticed the necklace in a shop-window and – as it tends to happen in dreams – suddenly she was there. The jewel fitted around her neck perfectly; she felt the weight of the medal on her collarbone. A clock was hidden inside it and was covered by delicate patina of old times.

Margaret hadn’t slept that well in ages. She didn’t fall asleep easily and the never-ending pain in her body woke her up at ungodly hours of the night. Her doctors already gave up on her. So did everyone else.

Margaret was never rich and his two sons couldn’t expect too much heritage. She wanted to take even her necklace – the old one, covered in patina which always lied besides her on the nightstand – to the grave with her even though the clock in the medal had already stopped before midnight and its hands rarely moved a few seconds.

Margaret never thought about herself as a good person. She was terribly careless and awfully selfish, horribly sensitive and dreadfully sentimental – she had always   
despised herself for this weakness.

She had never been in love. She married a man whom she hardly knew and later left – she raised her children on her own.

She never felt herself a good mother – she only watched as her sons grew up; watched and felt proud. She loved her children, infinitely and unconditionally – unlike her mother. But against every experience, Margaret still believed – wanted to believe – that love is not worth; that love is natural.

At the age of eighteen – almost for a full year – she was happy. Then she got married – and her life rushed over her, not leaving anything after itself only sixty-years of painful, stupid longing.

Everyday – that night – she wished after her youth again.

*

She shivered as cold air tore into her skin. It was strange; she remembered closing the window the night before. She turned to her side and her heart jumped into her throat as the bed disappeared under her. She landed on the ground with a dull thump; sand, gravel and concrete scratched her skin and as she sat up gasping for air, she found herself next to a bench. It was an awfully surreal experience.

She didn’t think of herself as senile even though she didn’t always remember where she put her glasses or her keys. But to stray away from the hospital, all alone on the middle of the night – it was unthinkable.

She hugged herself and looked around; the neighborhood seemed familiar. She had been here, for sure. Then it struck her: she lived here with her parents before she married.

Big changes happened since: apartment houses towered over her, painted yellow; well-cared park, neatly cut grass all around. Opposite her a baby-swing creaked loudly. Nothing remained the same. Their old mansion was certainly torn down too.  
Margaret slowly stood up; her legs were shaking – it felt like she had travelled for ages. She didn’t even know what to do with herself; maybe she would go back to the hospital. Without her medication future didn’t seem bright.

She warily started walking, gravel stinging her naked feet. Her nightgown whirled around her ankles and she shivered from time to time in the ice-cold air of the morning.

She felt taller a bit. And her back didn’t hurt at all like it usually did. She didn’t even remember the last time she felt so… alive.

She finally left behind the park and walked all alone on empty streets. Dawn broke over the sky with a hint of pink and the air filled with the smell of the spring – being alive hadn’t felt so good in a long, long time.

She walked next to the main road, besides shop-windows, under the slowly fading light of street-lamps. Cars swept past her from time to time – now she didn’t want to go back to the hospital so badly.

She glanced into a shop-window, hardly paying attention and she didn’t even realized what she saw.

Then she stopped.

She touched the glass with her fingertips only but the vision didn’t fade away. Margaret looked behind her, to be sure. She was the only one on the street.  
She wanted to believe and she wanted to run.

In the reflection of the glass stood a young girl, her long hair falling to her shoulder. Margaret remembered her; they met, looking into the mirror everyday a lifetime ago. She didn’t know exactly when they lost each other.

She touched her face – so did the reflection. Margaret’s skin was soft under her fingertips; a young girl’s skin.  
She recoiled, gasping for air.

What on earth had happened?

She startled when a car ran past; a child stared at her from the window with wide, curious eyes – their gaze met. Loud steps knocked on the pavement and a bird sang somewhere far; everything, everything jammed into a dusty, whirling bubble as her heartbeat quickened…

Then something pushed her back and the world clicked into place again.

“Look where you go, idiot!”

A girl bent over in front of her to pick up all her papers scattered on the ground; her voice was bitter and rough like black coffee.

“But you pushed me…” started Margaret hesitantly as she crouched down to help.

“Why are you standing on the middle of the street anyway?” grumbled the girl. She shook her head. “God, you must be stoned…”

“I didn’t commit any sin which I could be stoned for…” said Margaret uncertainly as she was picking the girl’s papers. She looked at them and stopped; there was a   
drawing of a naked girl on one. And two men kissing on another one – fading colors and rough lines both.

The girl was really talented; only her themes seemed… a bit unusual.

She grabbed the paper out of her hands.

“Give that back!”

“It’s beautiful” said Margaret quietly.

The girl looked at her in disbelief.

“You think so?” she asked.

A smile was playing on the edge of her lips.

Margaret finally had time to look at her: her pitch-black hair fell on her shoulders and bracelets covered her left wrist. She had a ragged military backpack and she hold her drawings close to her chest; dark circles sat under her eyes and in her nose a silvery piece of metal glinted.

“Does it hurt?”

Margaret warily reached out to touch it; the girl recoiled suddenly.

“The piercing? No.” She shook her head. “It’s a bit strange at first but one can get used to it.”

“I’m sorry.”  
Margaret shivered as if waking up from a dream.

The girl stepped aside to walk past her; her steps were quick and her voice was muffled.

“I gotta go.”

“Wait!” Margaret shouted after her. “What’s your name?” she asked.

“Rose. Yours?”

“Margaret.”

“That’s such a long name.” The girl shook her head. “Can I call you M?”

“Of course” said Margaret. “If I may ask, where are you going?”

“School” shrugged Rose. “I live far from it, I gotta get up early. Do you want to come with me?” she asked suddenly because Margaret seemed interesting; unusual.   
Almost otherworldly. And Rose loved outcasts.

Margaret nodded with a faint smile.

“Why not?”

Maybe only for an hour. Or just a day. To try out how it feels like to live again.

They walked together on the slowly waking street; they didn’t say a word.

Rose glanced at Margaret from time to time.

Her white nightgown whirled against her ankles and her blonde hair lasted past the middle of her back. She wore an old silver-medal around her neck.

Rose cleared her throat.

“Nice necklace."

“I beg your pardon?” looked up Margaret.

“The necklace.” Rose nodded towards it. “Pretty.”

“Thank you” touched the medal Margaret, not even paying attention.

Her eyes widened with surprise.

“I don’t remember wearing it last night” she murmured.

“What are you doing out here anyway?” asked Rose with a twinge of worry in her chest.

“I don’t know.” Margaret shook her head. “I just woke up. On a bench.”

Rose stopped in her track. Maybe she was wrong about the situation.

“Where did you come from?”

“The hospital” said Margaret.

“What?!”

Rose grabbed her wrist in panic.

“Then you know what? Leave the school alone! I’ll take you back to the hospital!”

She pulled the girl after her in a hurry – the situation was more difficult than she thought.

She wanted to hit her head in a wall. Why didn’t she notice it before? What was she thinking?! No sane person left their house in a nightgown!

“No! Wait!” protested Margaret. “Stop!”

She tore her arm away from Rose.

“What?!”  
They stared at each other for a moment, chest heaving.

“I don’t want to go back” said Margaret quietly.

“But… But you have to! You need medical attendance. It can’t be a coincidence you had to go to hospital.”

Rose stepped closer.

“I had rheumatism. And osteoporosis. And at times I couldn’t breathe properly” explained Margaret breezily.

Rose looked her up and down.

“Are you kidding me?! You can’t be older than twenty, for fuck’s sake!”

“This is it!” Margaret expanded her arms. “I’m eighteen. I want to live!”

“Then go back to the hospital with me!”

Rose reached for her wrist. Margaret backed away.

“No! You don’t understand! I want to live!” she repeated. “Let me go to school! Please! Just a few hours… Give me a few hours to live!”

It seemed like there was no oxygen as Rose just stood there helplessly. What should she do? What would be the best now?

“Come on…” she sighed. “But only for a few hours!”

“Thank you, mother” grinned Margaret. The air suddenly smelled like freedom.

Rose walked quickly. She didn’t talked to her, didn’t even looked at her direction but Margaret hurried on her heels persistently. A black and a white spot.  
Rose glanced at her watch; her heart stumbled.

“Why are you wearing your watch on the inside of your wrist?” asked Margaret.

Rose grabbed her arm and suddenly started to run without a word.

“We’re gonna be late!” she hissed; her boots loudly thumped on the ground.

Margaret followed her, stumbling; her naked feet clapped on the pavement as she clumsily sidestepped scattered bubble-gums and shattered glass. But she took up the tempo and they ran side by side, Rose’s grip still on her wrist and there was something heady in this morning rush that Margaret didn’t feel in a long, long time.

Rose stopped suddenly and Margaret ran straight into her; the school building darkly towered over them.

Margaret looked up at it with bright, sparkling eyes. It was a long time ago when she went to school.

Rose ran up on the stairs and pushed in the door then waved; Margaret followed and they stepped inside together.

But the rush wasn’t over.

Rose’s steps echoed on the corridor as she ran, Margaret in her heels; they almost burst into a classroom and every head turned towards them.

“Sorry… Sorry for being late!” spit out Rose panting; she didn’t even glanced at the teacher as she hurried to her place.

She finally dropped on her seat with a sigh. Margaret sat next to her, neatly pressing her dress under herself.  
There was silence for moments while the students stared at them in shock; they giggled and poked each other even after the teacher called to order a numerous times. Rose felt her face lighting up with red.

“Dammit!” she hissed.

“What happened?” glanced at her Margaret with worry in her eyes.

“Wrong class” sighed Rose. “My class is in another room.”

She looked at the board full of equations in despair.

“Now we have to sit through this Maths…”

“Oh, Mathematics is my favorite subject!” brightened up Margaret.

“Why am I here?” leant on her desk Rose bitterly. “Do what you want, I’m out” she moaned faintly from under her hair.

A paper-pellet landed next to them with a small noise; Margaret’s eyes widened in surprise. She remembered: they exchanged notes this way when she was a child.  
She bent down and picked up the crinkled paper; she smoothly opened it.

“Rose!”

She poked her shoulder warily.

“I think this is for you.”

“Don’t care about it!” waved Rose dismissively. “Just that stupid hipster wants to know if I had finally lost my mind.”

“Who?” asked Margaret.

“That guy at the lockers.”

Rose put up her middle finger without even looking behind her back.  
Margaret turned curiously.

A brown-haired boy looked back at her and he grinned. He wore a black coat with a white shirt and his shoes were shining. Margaret waved and the boy waved back.  
She turned back to Rose.

“Why did you insult him? He seems like a decent young man.”

“What?” Rose was taken aback for a moment. Then she laughed. “Oh, jeez…” She pinched her nose. “I didn’t insult him, he’s my best friend.”

“Your best friend?” repeated Margaret. It seemed like an unusual thought. “Do you mean your wooer?”

“No way!” shook her head Rose half-laughing, half-startled. “Man, I feel sorry for the girl who’ll be his girlfriend.”

“Why?” asked Margaret curiously.

“’Cause he’s a moron” said Rose. “When he comes over, he eats all of our puddings. He has the nerve to win in Assasin’s Creed against me and my cat loves him more than me.”

“He must be hiding tuna-tins in his pockets” said Margaret.

“Eh, no. I tried that but that stupid cat still melt in his lap like a marshmallow on the bonfire and didn’t even look at me.”

“I see” nodded Margaret seriously. “What’s its name?” she asked.

“Amadeus.”

“It’s a nice name. But I assume he can’t play the piano, can he?” smiled Margaret smoothly and Rose laughed, quiet like a sigh.

Another paper-pellet landed next to them.

“I think Hipster would like to talk to you” picked it up Margaret.

“Who?”

“Hipster. You know, the young man who is your best friend and not your suitor” said Margaret. “Or… did I misunderstand something?”

“No! Not at all” shook her head Rose and she laughed before she smoothly pressed down the paper and read the message, visible to Margaret.

“He misspelled the word ‘bastard’” remarked Margaret, sliding closer.

“Really?” grinned Rose and she quickly wrote down: ‘You should educate yourself more, Hipster. M says your grammar is awful’ – then she creased the paper.  
“Look at this! I can throw this at him with my eyes closed” she bragged.

She covered her eyes and throw the pellet back swiftly. It landed in the wavy hair of the girl sitting behind them with a quiet rustle and Rose burst out laughing, loud and unstoppable, while Margaret tried to apologize, her shoulders trembling with laughter.

“Excuse me, aren’t you two bothered by my lesson?”

The teacher stepped next to them. He was tall, scrawny man in a matching shirt and tie with three deep wrinkle on his forehead.

“Not at all, go on!” looked up at him Rose casually.

“Thank you. Very thoughtful” he hissed. “I’d be glad if you stopped talking. I assume you’d like to graduate from this institution soon.”

“We’re truly sorry, Sir” interrupted Margaret before Rose could open her mouth.

“You better be” grumbled the teacher. “I have no intentions of losing more time because of you two” he said before he went back to the board.  
The tension eased in Margaret’s shoulders.

“But it started to be interesting…” mumbled Rose.

The ring of the bell interrupted her words.

“Please, will you introduce me to your best friend who is not your suitor?” asked Margaret.

“Sure."

Rose's mouth curled into a bitter, threatening smile as the wavy-haired girl put up her middle finger at her as she went. Then she turned back to Margaret again.

“But why do you always add that he’s not my suitor?”

“Because men usually only spend their time in a lady’s company when they’re trying to woo them” replied Margaret.

“Bullshit!” said Rose abruptly. “Neither of us was attracted to the other ever.”

“Who’s attracted to who?”

The boy stepped next to them suddenly and Margaret was keen to welcome him.

“Hello, Hipster! It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Yeah, sure… Same” nodded the boy; he looked at Rose, hoping for help.

“Hipster, she’s Margaret” she waved, grinning.

“Cool” he mumbled. “Please, excuse us for a moment…”

He grabbed Rose’s arm and pulled her aside.

“Have you lost your mind?” he hissed. “Where the hell did you pick her up?”

“We bumped into each other on the street” shrugged Rose.

“Why am I not surprised?” Hipster rolled his eyes. “But where did she run away from? An asylum?

“From the hospital. And she didn’t run away. She just woke up in the park. On a bench. She had no clue how she got there” replied Rose glancing at Margaret. She was inspecting the posters on the wall with great interest.

“What?! She totally came from an asylum. Or she’s a junkie. Why didn’t you take her back?” hissed Hipster.

“Like a broken item?”

Rose seemed almost furious.

“I didn’t mean it like that…” backed down Hipster.

“I tried anyway” huffed Rose. “But she didn’t want to go back. She wanted to come to school with me.”

“That’s it! I told you! She’s crazy!”

“Come on! Who tells what normal is? It’s only a few hours anyway and then we go back to the hospital this afternoon.”

“’Kay” he sighed. “I have just one more question: why does she call me Hipster?” he glanced towards Margaret. She waved.

“’Cause she thinks that’s your name” shrugged Rose. “And I guess I keep it” she grinned. “So be nice to her! Try!” she patted his back. “Come on, the next lesson’s almost started!”

She started towards the door and Margaret followed.

“Do you come with us, Hipster?” she asked.

“Yeah… Yeah, sure” the boy nodded, just a little bit bewildered.


	2. II.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again I'm sorry for all my grammar and spelling mistakes.

“Why are children taking pictures of themselves with their mobile telephones?” asked Margaret, walking on the corridor in the lunchbreak.

“’Cause they’re egoistic” grinned Rose, baring her teeth. “They put the pics up on Instagram and beg for likes.”

“I always thought there is more dignity in the art of photography” remarked Margaret uncertainly. She only understood the word ‘begging’.

“It’s not ‘art’” huffed Hipster, neatening the camera hanging from his neck.

Margaret glanced at him curiously.

“Then please, tell me what art is in your opinion.”

“Self-expression” shrugged Hipster. “And as such it must be selfish…” he wondered.

“I’ve always had so much respect for those with confidence” remarked Margaret.

She blushed faintly.

“I’ve never had…”

Hipster suddenly stepped in front of her.

“Wait!”

And Margaret recoiled, half-laughing, half-startled when the camera clicked.  
He showed her the picture.

“This is art.”

“And why is this art?” she asked, bewildered, a little red, and a bit annoyed.

“Hipster would like to express that he thinks you are pretty” interrupted Rose before she pulled him over by his tie.

“If you hit on her, you’ll die” she hissed.

Hipster laughed.

“Why? Because you want to hit on her?”

“No! No one will hit on her because she’s gonna be in a hospital ward this afternoon. Believe me, she has more trouble than being hit on” she sighed.  
Hipster hugged her tightly.

“Hey, don’t worry about her. She’s gonna be alright” he whispered.

Rose pressed her forehead against his shoulder and took a deep breath. Since her father’s death it seemed difficult not to be sensitive about health issues.

“Do you think we are being jerks for leaving her out of everything?” she asked finally.

“If we are, she is too polite to mention it” grinned Hipster, glancing towards Margaret.

“Hey, M!” shouted Rose. “Come here, I’ll show you the art room!” she waved.

“Oh my god, run while you can…” he remarked with a slight smirk.  
Margaret stepped closer.

“Why?”

“Rose’s head over heels for that art room” he whispered. “You won’t get out of there soon.”

“He’s exaggerating” waved Rose dismissively. “We have time, I don’t have more classes. But we won’t be there for long, I swear.”

“Hipster won’t come?” asked Margaret.

Rose shook her head.

“Nah, he’s got lunch here.”

Up she pulled Margaret by her hand, up, up, and upper to the third floor, then she turned right and opened a small white door.  
Margaret walked after her, almost on tip-toe.

The art room was small with milky-white walls, canvases dumped on top of each other, chairs covered in colorful paint-spots, and half-full paintboxes.

“Now I’d say this is where dreams come true…”

Rose expanded her arms with a sudden, happy laugh as she spun around, a black spot blending with all that white.

“But seriously, this is my favorite place… maybe even on this whole damn world.”

“Did you paint that?” asked Margaret uncertainly, pointing at a canvas in the corner.

It was a portrait of a black man in front of a dusty-gray background, smudged on the edges and harsh white stripes tore into the darkness at places.

“Yeah, I did.”

“It’s really pretty” said Margaret. “It’s only odd that you didn’t use colors.”

“I felt like not using them” shrugged Rose. “But I like dark colors more anyway.”

“Why?” asked Margaret. “I think colors bring happiness.”

Rose laughed briefly as she turned away.

“I’m never happy.”

Margaret didn’t even know why but she dipped both of her hands into paint; green, red, purple, her thumb was orange, and on her forehead a bright yellow line ran through – the paint was still wet.

Rose suddenly spun around and when they collided Margaret cupped her face, stroking her skin with her thumb, her fingers leaving behind green, red, orange, and purple paint – she pressed her forehead against hers.

“But I’d like you to be happy” she whispered seriously.

They didn’t moved for moments; as if time had stopped. Rose was taller with a few inch and she felt her heart beating, beating, beating in her chest.

“Now you have colors, you see” breathed Margaret. “But you’re right: everybody needs a little black sometimes.”

She seemed sad as her fingers left behind two lines of black paint when she stroked her chin smoothly – then she stepped back and Rose gasped for air.  
Margaret’s heart shivered suddenly. She didn’t even know how she dared to do this. Not even in the past had she said out loud her thoughts – then why now?  
Silently, they stared at each other and moments felt like an eternity.

“You said, everyone needs a little black sometimes” said Rose, voice hoarse.

A dark half-moon she drew on Margaret’s forehead with her thumb and her legs were shaking.

“Will we take pictures with your mobile telephone too?” asked Margaret suddenly.

Rose cleared her throat.

“You mean, you wanna take a selfie?”

“Yes, yes, anything that might be!” nodded Margaret enthusiastically.

“Sure…” shrugged Rose as she took out her phone and pulled Margaret closer.  
Her heart started beating, beating, beating fast again.

They startled when Hipster vehemently opened the door and he burst out laughing.

“You… What happened to you two?”

“Nothing” grumbled Rose.

She stepped away from Margaret with her blood boiling; she heard the camera clicking as Hipster took a photo of them and maybe she was not more than a smudged black spot in the corner of the picture.

“Hey, Rose…”

“What?!” she burst out.

“Does tonight still stand?” asked Hipster.

“Tonight?” said Margaret quietly. “Do you go on a romantic rendezvous?”

“Oh, come on!” growled Rose as she stepped out of the room.

“There’ll be a party in the haunted castle” replied Hipster. “We are not invited, but hey, this is our senior year!”  
He expanded his arm enthusiastically.

“So we sneak in. Only once, that’s enough.”

“Oh. I see” smiled Margaret. “It must be great entertainment” she said, voice full of longing.

“Uh. Yeah, sure.”

Hipster didn’t look at her.

“Do you want to maybe… wash your face or something?”

“Indeed” said Margaret, surprised. It didn’t come to her mind before.

Rose had disappeared; the door of the girls’ bathroom had just closed. Margaret followed her.  
The water seethed from the tap with a furious sound as Rose was washing the paint off her face.

“Are you angry with me?” asked Margaret warily.

“No” grumbled Rose.

She didn’t turn; she looked at her from the mirror and dirty-gray liquid streamed down on her face – a mix of red, green, orange, purple, and yellow.  
Margaret stepped closer.

“I beg your pardon. What I did was very, very impolite. I shouldn’t have done it.”

Rose sighed.

“I’ve told you I’m not angry. But I guess it’s time for you to go back to the hospital. I don’t want you to be hurt” she said, so quietly that Margaret didn’t even hear it.

“Alright” she nodded. “Let’s go.”

*

Anxiety tied knot on Margaret’s stomach as the door of the hospital opened and they stepped in.

Rose marched to the reception without hesitation dragging her behind. Margaret’s legs seemed heavy.

“’xcuse me, ma’am! We are here to see Margaret…”

She stopped and looked back for help.

“Smith. We are here to see Margaret Smith” she sighed unwillingly.

“Just a minute, I check it.”

The nurse’s fingers swept over the key-board with unthinkable speed.

“I’m truly sorry but we don’t have any Margaret Smith in the database.”

Rose glanced back at Margaret but it seemed not even she knew what was going on.

The nurse went on.

“I mean we had one but she died from natural cause a few days ago…”

“Pardon?” breathed Margaret; she seemed pale. The word ‘died’ echoed in her head over and over.

Rose shook her head.

“It must be a mistake. She _is_ Margaret Smith”, pointed back at her, “and she is very much alive, believe me!” she laughed briefly. “Certainly, you mistyped something.”

The nurse seemed angry now.

“Stop kidding around! It’s written here, Margaret Smith, aged seventy-eight, cardiac failure, pronounced dead on the morning of Wednesday”, with force, she turned the screen for them to see, “and we don’t have any Margaret Smith since then!

“I can’t believe it…” mumbled Rose. She spun around. “What the hell is going on?!”

Margaret shook her head in despair.

“I won’t make a scene here” hissed Rose.

She grabbed Margaret’s hand and pulled her outside.

“You lied to me!” she burst out as soon as the door closed behind them with a hiss.

“No… I did not…” stuttered Margaret. “I don’t know what happened…”

Maybe Hipster was right. She was crazy – but she was not the only one.

“Then… Then just tell me what you remember” sighed Rose. “Maybe we can put the pieces together.”

“I remember dreaming I’m eighteen again. And I didn’t have such a good night in a long time.”

She didn’t look at Rose.

“Then I woke up on that bench. And I thought about going back to the hospital… but then I met you” she glanced over to her with a faint smile.

“So… you were seventy-eight, right? And how old are you now?”

“Eighteen” shrugged Margaret.

“Why eighteen?” asked Rose. “What’s so important about it?”

“I had the last happy summer at the age of eighteen before my mother made me marry a man I never loved and so did he” answered Margaret. “I also got this necklace then.”

She warily lifted the medal’s cover and her eyes widened with surprise.

Rose bent closer.

“Something’s wrong?”

“The clock…” whispered Margaret. “It stopped before midnight a few months ago but now it’s working like it did for sixty years.”

“And what if it has to do something with your ‘metamorphosis’?” wondered Rose out loud.

“How?”

“I dunno. Magic. Hocus-pocus” said Rose mockingly. “Maybe the clock resets itself to the time it was bought and it changes back you too. Maybe this is a magic-necklace.”

Margaret looked at the medal in her hand; her eyes were shining.

“Do you really think so?”

Rose shook her head.

“I don’t believe in magic. I can’t imagine anything else just that you lied to me. And you’re lying now too.”

“No! No, I would never…” startled Margaret.

“I’m not really mad…” laughed Rose quietly.

Warily, she glanced at the necklace.

“Do you think… that this thing will… change back?”

Margaret shook her head.

“I do hope it will not. Since I got this second chance I’d like to use it.”

She looked up, straight into her eyes.

“And now what are we gonna do?” asked Rose.

“I’d like to go to that party with you and Hipster” said Margaret without hesitation.

“If you want to…” shrugged Rose.

A hint of a smile played on the edge of her lips.

*

“Hey, Hipster, are you sure it’s a good idea?” she hissed, exasperated.

Crossing the cemetery after nightfall wasn’t really what her heart desired.

“’Course it is” he barked back. “It’s shorter this way.”

“Oh, drat!” hissed Margaret as she stumbled.

“Don’t fall behind!” pulled her closer Rose.

On her phone the flashlight-application lit the road in front of them.

“Anyway, who the hell says ‘dart’?” she laughed quietly.

“I do” said Margaret. “But please, tell me why do you call this house a haunted castle?” she asked.

“It’s standing deserted for a long time now on the brink of the city and it’s a ruined mess. When we were little, we hung around there all the time and played make  
believes…”

Margaret stopped suddenly and her eyes widened with surprise as the light of the phone fell on a marble tombstone and fresh flowers around it – a new grave.

“Wait…”

She stepped closer uncertainly, legs shaking; her shadow casted on the tombstone as she pulled over flowers and leaves.  
She couldn’t breathe.

Hipster stepped suddenly next to them.

“Where the hell did you fall behind?”

Rose elbowed him on the side.

“Shut up!”

Margaret stood still; Rose didn’t take her eyes of her.

“What's going on?” asked Hipster. “What’s that you don’t tell me?”

“Magic” breathed Rose in awe.

Margaret was still standing frozen; she didn’t say a thing and it seemed like time had stopped.

Rose stepped closer, impatiently; pine needles crashed under her feet.

“So? Is it yours? Say something!” she burst out.

“It… It was a quick funeral” said Margaret; her voice trembled.

“I’m sorry” mumbled Rose.

“I’ve had enough!” yelled Hipster. “What’s going on?”

Margaret lifted her head.

“A new chance” she said, determined. “I can live again; and this time I will live the way I’d like to.”

“And… what are you wanna do now?” asked Rose.

“Let’s go to that party!” turned around Margaret, still in her nightgown, still barefoot. She didn’t have time to change; too much happened over too little time.

Rose nodded. She gave Margaret her phone. 

“Go afore, we’ll follow. I’ll just explain Hipster what’s going on.”

“Alright.”

Margaret started walking with quiet hisses as pine needles crashed under her bare feet; Rose turned back to Hipster.

“So? What’s that you don’t tell me?” he asked.

Rose stepped closer to the grave; his flashlight lit up the words: Margaret Smith – died at age 78.

“So what?” shrugged Hipster. “What’s the deal?”

“M’s last name is Smith too” said Rose quietly.

“Happens. Smith’s a pretty common name. If not the most common.”

“Don’t you understand?!” burst out Rose suddenly. “It’s her grave!”

She quickly told Hipster the story from start till the end; what happened in the hospital and what Margaret said about the necklace.

“You mean… it’s some kind of magic?” asked Hipster hesitantly when Rose gasped for air.

“I don’t know”, she pinched the bridge of her nose. “Maybe. But it could be, and this is the more possible option, that she is just lying to me.”

He shook his head.

“Why would anyone tell herself this much older?”

“You’re right” sighed Rose. “But then I don’t know what’s going on.”

“And… what are you gonna do now?” he asked warily.

“I take her to that party.”

“You can’t be serious!” burst out Hipster. “You should search for answers in the library, on the internet, everywhere! You should find out what this is! That if it could  
be reversed! You should panic, for God’s sake! Don’t just… Don’t just accept it!”

Her smile was sharp as she bared her teeth.

“Did you really think that I am a person who does what she should?”

“True” sighed Hipster. “You’re insane. But I still have a bad feeling about this…”

Rose waved him off.

“Just shut up for a moment.”

She stood on tiptoe and listened; the forest was dark and quiet around them.

“Where’s Margaret?” whispered Rose; her heart was beating like a hammer.

“See?! You already lost her” grumbled Hipster.

Rose’s voice pitched higher than she wanted.

“Where is Margaret?”

“You told her to go off alone… She just obeyed” shrugged Hipster.

“Don’t you dare telling me that it’s my fault if she…” She stopped.

“Margaret!” she shouted; Hipster startled behind her.  
“Margaret!”

Darkness seemed thick around them, a hungry animal; it devoured even the light of Hipster’s phone.

“Help me!” elbowed him Rose. “Margaret!” she shouted again; leaves rustled when an owl flew.  
“Margaret!”

Sticks crashed under her boots and branches scratched her face as she ran; her breath dissolved whitely into the silent nighttime air.

“Margaret!”

“Calm down!” grabbed her arm Hipster. “Don’t shout so loud, you’ll wake up the dead!”

“That’s exactly my goal” slapped on Rose, gasping for air. “Margaret!”

“Yes?”

She stepped forth behind a tree; in her white nightgown she looked like a ghost glowing in the dark.

Rose cleared her throat, heart beating slower.

“Next time don’t disappear like this!”

“As you wish” nodded Margaret; her smile was faint.

“We don’t get there if we crawl like old hags” said Hipster impatiently. “I mean… no offense.”

Rose elbowed him on the side.

“This neighborhood seems so familiar…” wondered Margaret. “I think I’ve already been in this cemetery.

“My father is here” said Rose airily.

“I see” mumbled Margaret and Rose went on.

“It’s a small place anyway. There’s a playground somewhere around here where you woke up. It’s the suburbs or something like that, the point is that everyone knows everyone. And there are rumours, oh god, so many rumours!”

She laughed. It was a brief, unhappy laugh.

“They talked about my mother a lot too because they thought she didn’t mourn “properly”, she scratched connotation marks to the air, “but she just tried to survive on her own.”

There were fewer tombstones, ruined and old all; faintly audible music played – they arrived.

“Finally!” Hipster expanded his arms enthusiastically. “Let’s party!”

*

Music beat to the same rhythm as her heart as Margaret hid on the rooftop; it seemed safer this way, far from all the noise and chaos.

Down there youngsters were different from her: extraordinarily average and ordinarily unique. Difficult and exciting.

“They give themselves to the whole wide world” thought Margaret, “while they’re dancing like this, shoulder to shoulder.”

They did so many odd things. They took pictures of themselves and their friendships were rough and solid like rocks; they said out loud those things nobody had dared to say before and sometimes, it seemed, they fought with the world just for fun.

Margaret softly laughed to herself.

It was good she found Rose. Because no one else had quite the same sharp smile as Rose; and no one else would pick up someone from the street like Margaret. And no one else would worry about her more after only a few hours of acquaintance than Rose.

“Hey!”

Rose slipped next to her suddenly and the tiles softly crackled under her as she sat down.

“’Sup?” she asked.

Margaret shook her head.

“I don’t understand. What is a sup?”

Rose laughed.

“It means what is up. How are you?”

“Oh. I’m fine, thank you for asking. And you?”

“Same.”

Silence tightened between them; only the music filled the night.

“Why do people jump to this noise so vehemently?” asked Margaret.

“I think they just want to reach the sun.”

Rose looked up at the sky, at the stars; the wind gently blew her hair and Margaret closed her eyes, only for a moment and she wished – really, really hard – for time to stop.

Time was a peculiar invention anyway; it mocked her enough times as it is.

“But it’s already dark” she said.

Rose glanced down at the crowd.

“Do you think they noticed?” she asked. “Because I think if someone wants it enough the sun will always shine on them.”

“If you think so…” started Margaret. “Then tell me, why is that you’re never happy?”

Rose shrugged.

“I don’t know. Maybe I am. My happiness is just slightly different than everybody else’s.”

“It could be” nodded Margaret, looking at the crowd. “I thought they demolished this house” she said suddenly.

“What do you mean?”

“I lived here with my mother.”

“Really? But why haven’t you said that before?”

Rose closed her mouth abruptly. Margaret didn’t owe her any stories.

“I didn’t like it here.”

Margaret shrugged and Rose suddenly realized: there is beauty in choosing whom you open up to. It gives worth to every word.

“It was so dark and strict… My mother always drew close the curtains because of her migraine” muttered Margaret. “And my father was only a medallion and legends since I was five.”

“And what happened to your husband?” asked Rose hesitantly. “I mean…”

She shrugged. She couldn’t have explained why she jumped so big.

“Once he left for months and then he came home drunk as if nothing had happened. My mother disinherited me when after this I insisted on the divorce.”  
There was something bitter in Margaret’s smile.

“And… have you ever been in love then?”

The topic of an old suitor seemed safe. Old ladies loved talking about their Mysterious Handsome Gentleman with a low voice and a charming face, the god of masculinity, the love of their life and once upon a time they danced through whole nights but they couldn’t ever be together, what a pity!

But Margaret didn’t seem to follow the traditions.

“I don’t think so” she said. “No. And you?”

“Me?”

Rose didn’t look at her. She felt her first crush still glowing on her skin, the first time when she fell in love with a girl. She was sixteen then.

It was scary; sudden like lightning – and it brought so many things. It brought fear; that her mother would be disappointed and the girls in the school would be scared and disgusted if they knew. It brought anger; it brought jealousy; it brought loneliness. Then she met Hipster.

She could tell him anything; not only he had two dads but he couldn’t care less about other’s love life. But he still listened to her and sometimes he could give an advice that was actually useful. Other times he said unbearably stupid things but it could have been worse.

And knowing all of this… Had Rose ever been in love?

“Well… I have no idea” she muttered. “Maybe. Not sure.”

Margaret nodded.

They sit silently, hiding in the music.

“Did you have kids?” asked Rose. “I mean… Do you?”

“Two boys.”

Margaret seemed proud.

“Decent young men… I will find time to see them.”

She smiled softly.

The wind blew over them and she shuddered in the cold. Rose took off her jacket and gave it to her; goosebumps run up on her uncovered skin.  
Margaret laughed.

“You’ll catch a cold… Now, come here!”

Rose slid closer to her and their knees, arms, shoulders touched; her heart stopped beating for a moment.

“I’d like to have a haircut” said Margaret. “And wear jeans.”

Her eyes gleamed.

Maybe it would stay this way. Margaret would sleep at her place that night and maybe all the following nights. Perhaps Rose would lend clothes to her. Take her shopping. And slowly, she would tell Margaret all of her stories and if the situation fits maybe she’d kiss her someday. And if Rose was lucky… If she was really lucky… But why would they hurry? All of infinity were theirs.

In that moment they were immortal.

“I suppose you have no place to sleep tonight, so…”

Her phone cried out in her pocket, once, twice and a third time before she finally picked it up, angry and red in the face.

“Yes?”

“Y-Yes… Yes, um…”

The voice on the other end seemed insecure and very, very young.

“What is it?”

“Miss Lancaster? Am I… Am I talking to Miss Rose Lancaster? My name’s Dr. Wright, I work in the city hospital and I… I’m really sorry…”

The edges of the phone cut into her palm as she squeezed the device; her knuckles whitened.

“I’m deeply sorry to tell you that your mother… Your mother is here, I mean…

“What? Is this a joke? Because if it is then it’s a bad one!”

This couldn’t be more than a prank. The woman in the phone didn’t seem to be old enough to have a diploma. She sure as hell wasn’t a doctor. Only a new resident of the local juvenile prison, right? Right?!

“We’d like you to… to come in, please, if that’s… if that’s possible…”

“I’ll be there.”

Rose’s voice trailed off; her hands were shaking. This shouldn’t happen now. This shouldn’t happen ever.

“Are you okay?” asked Margaret, her voice full of worry.

“We gotta go.”

Rose stood up. She didn’t look at Margaret.

“Why?”

“Mom… My mom is in hospital.”

Rose hurried down, almost panicked and tiles crackled under her feet as she tripped; Margaret caught her wrist and pulled her back, close. She felt her panicked breath against her skin.

“Let’s find Hipster” said Margaret quietly.

She started, carefully, almost warily and Rose followed.

They found Hipster in the garden, under a tree. He was kissing a girl, his hands on her waist; colors glowed on their skin and the night melted around them.  
Rose marched to them without hesitation and loudly cleared her throat.

The girl looked up at her with anger in her eyes and yellow lines running on her cheeks.

“What is it?” asked Hipster, his voice hoarse.

“We have to go. Mom…”

She trailed off. She didn’t want to say it out loud; not in front of a stranger. But she didn’t need to.

“Yeah, sorry, I gotta go” stood up Hipster. He followed Rose without any more questions.

*

She didn’t even remember how they got to the hospital; she only saw her mother’s face: white skin, closed eyes. The gray in her hair.

Her hair turned to gray because of her. Because they argued and fought and never stopped. When Rose went to school that morning they had a fight again… She didn’t even remember over what. Maybe over her last painting with those scarred wolfs, teeth bared; her mother thought it was about them.  
Rose rubbed her eyes tiredly.

“How old is she?” asked Margaret. She stood on a chair with the straightest back possible, knees politely closed.

“Sixty-one or around that” shrugged Rose. “I was a late child. And my father was younger than her with ten years.”

She smiled, quietly.

In her mother there was always… something that captured attention. She wasn’t pretty, not really. But she was odd with curious blue eyes. Rose didn’t inherit anything from her with her dark, almost black eyes and firm cheekbones.

“Okay, I brought coffee for everyone” stepped next to them Hipster with three coffee cups in his hands and smudged paint on his nose. “You’ll need it” he sighed.

He gave one cup to Rose and one to Margaret.

“Miss… Miss Lancaster?”

Dr. Wright stood in the door; she was young, newly graduated doctor with brown wavy hair.

“May… May I have a word with you?” she asked, nervously adjusting her glasses.

“Yes?”

Rose followed her to the corridor and she closed the door behind her.

Margaret watched Mrs. Lancaster profile ponderingly.

“What are you doing?” hissed Hipster as she unclipped her necklace and laid it on Mrs. Lancaster’s collarbones. “Are you crazy?!”

“I have an idea, so if you please help me with this…”

Hipster stepped next to her with a deep sigh; he gently lifted Mrs. Lancaster’s head so Margaret could clip the necklace behind.

“And now?”

“I don’t know. I’m not sure if it works…”

She flipped open the watch and checked the time. Its hands had stopped just before midnight.

“You incompetent idiot!” Rose shut the door behind her as she stormed in. “What?!”

“I think you shouldn’t behave like this” said Margaret quietly. “Dr. Wright is only trying to help…”

“She’s playing with the life of my mother!”

“I understand you’re anxious. But I noticed something extremely peculiar concerning my watch…”

“Great because now is the time to play with your stupid clock!”

Margaret glanced at her resentfully.

“If you let me explain…”

“Sorry” muttered Rose. She was doing it again. Margaret was the last person on this planet she wanted to hurt but she did it anyway.

Margaret pulled her closer.

“Do you see the hands of the clock?” she asked.

“Yeah, they stopped. So what?” shrugged Rose.

“I think they show if someone is close to death.”

Rose’s heart skipped a beat.

“You… You mean my mother…?”

“It could be” nodded Margaret.

Rose had to sit down.

“But maybe we can change this. Maybe we can rewind the clock.”

“Let’s try it!” said Hipster.

“Do we have the slightest clue about what we’re doing?” asked Rose.

“We have no idea” shrugged Hipster. “But this won’t discourage us from trying. ‘Cause if we never try we never know, right? It’s like life. Or am I wrong?” he looked around.

“Not the time to mull over the meaning of life” muttered Rose.

“Oh!”

“What happened?”

The hands of the clock were rushing round and round swiftly; Margaret watched amazed.

“It’s working… It’s working!”

Rose softly touched her shoulder; her hands were shaking.

“Margaret…”

“Did you see it? Did you see it? It’s working!”

Her voice trailed off when she looked at Rose.

“And what happens to you?” she whispered.

“What do you mean?”

Rose's throat seemed dry.

“Your hand…”

Margaret looked at her hands. The top of her fingers had almost faded away. She shook her head.

“I didn’t expect it to last forever after all…”

There was something sad in her smile.

Her body was already under the ground; it was time to follow it.

Rose couldn’t breathe. She didn’t even know Margaret enough she couldn’t lose her already! She… She wanted so much more… She wanted to take her to a theme park and try the roller coaster, the big one she was always afraid of. She wanted to show her favorite song the one that feels like flying and watch the way Margaret’s eyes widen in surprise. She wanted to tell her all her stories and watch movies on the couch late at night. She wanted to take her to Hipster’s place for Christmas party with all his odd and less odd cousins and relatives. She wanted to play food fights with Margaret and laugh at her frowning face until she melted. She wanted to know her, she wanted to understand her. She wanted to hear her voice and just look into those unbelievably green eyes…

It was like lightning.

“My favorite color is blue” she started. “I like painting deers, and kissing men for some reason. I don’t like peas.”

Margaret just looked at her puzzled while her wrists slowly faded away; Rose didn’t stop.

“Sometimes I unintentionally hurt others and I don’t want to be cold and grumpy I just don’t know how to be anything else.”

She stepped closer.

“When I paint I listen to death metal. I have no idea about my future. I don’t want to think about graduation. I can’t draw in my pajamas because it feels like the people under my hands could see me. Last year I failed my Maths class.”

Tears started rolling down on her face, warm, almost hot.

“My first crush was a girl. I like Tintin comics and Lucky Luke. And I don’t want you to go…”

She stopped; she choked on her words.

Margaret didn’t say anything; she just looked at her silently. Rose felt the heat running up and down in her body from her toes to the top of her head. She didn’t even notice when she moved but then she was in front of Margaret and kissed her almost feverishly, her hands on her shoulder; Margaret’s knees trembled.

Then Rose stepped back, gasping for air; in her eyes there were stars burning away.

“Oh…” breathed Margaret. She cleared her throat. “My favorite color is yellow and I always wanted a parrot. I hate sorrel with a burning passion” she shook her head.  
“I’m afraid of dogs. But I can ride a horse.”

She stepped closer. Her elbow slowly faded away.

“I read Agatha Christie’s every book even the ones she wrote under a penname. I like jazz. I cannot dance for the life of me. But I speak a few words in Russian. And actually I like writing poems. But I never in my life said that I can” she added. “But I’m quite good at mathematics. I used to work as an accountant. I still have my old ragdoll somewhere which I sewed myself. Oh, and… Dark-haired girls are just my type” she smiled softly.

Rose laughed quietly; it was hardly more than a breath.

“Do we take a picture like that… The three of us. Because it could be that it’s not art but it seemed amusing…” shrugged Margaret.

“Hipster, do you have your camera?” turned around Rose. “Hey!”

He was inspecting the cracks on the wall with the deepest attention; the top of his ear was glowing red.

“I’m sorry… What?”

“Come here, we’ll take a selfie.”

They huddled close together, shoulder to shoulder the three of them; Hipster lifted his camera in the right angle – only a click and it was over.

“And now?” asked Rose quietly.

“I think… I think I should go” said Margaret.

“I see” breathed Rose. Her eyes filled with tears again.

Margaret stepped closer.

“May I ask you something? Don’t forget me.”

She kissed her gently as if she was afraid of breaking her and Rose lazily stroked the back of her neck with her thumb; it thrilled and ached in Margaret’s heart.  
She had to step back.

“Please just… don’t you ever forget me, please!”

“I sure as hell won’t” nodded Rose. She bit her lips so hard it hurt.

“Then I think… I think I have to go” whispered Margaret.

She started for the door and Rose closed her eyes; tears rolled down on her face, hot and salty, as she imagined her still standing there.  
Margaret’s steps trailed off and Rose’s shoulder sunk.

*

Months later a painting was made, a quite peculiar one. It smelled of faded times and teary memories, rugged boards and a new spring. It was told to become famous.  
The picture was of three teenagers, black and white; a boy on the right in disheveled clothes, with smudged paint on his temple, and a mark of a woman’s lips on his cheek. A girl was standing in the middle like an old, yellow photograph; the green of her eyes was her only color and her smile was as bright as the sun. Another girl was leaning against her, trace of tears on her face and their shoulders touched; the paint blurred between them.

The painting was made by a certain Rose Lancaster under the title: Forget-Me-Not. In a later interview she said she kept a promise. And she kept it well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for everyone who read this story! Or just clicked on it. It means a lot.


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